Page 27 of The Promise of Tomorrow
He bit his lip. ‘Taking on Brandy and Snap must be bringing out my paternal instincts.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Right. Might head over to Dad’s early, better get changed. We’re playing board games.’
‘What do you usually play? I love Monopoly. Or there’s Cluedo.’
‘Risk,’ he said and gave her a pointed look before pulling down his puffer jacket hood and climbing the stairs, two at a time.
Hot tears filled her eyes; she wasn’t sure why. Fuck judgemental Rory. He hadn’t lived the last nineteen years like a convict, punished for making a kind-hearted deal, imprisoned within walls that no one else could see. And if she was a man, hewouldn’t have said a thing. Her phone beeped and she read the message, ignoring more than ten from her parents who were no doubt checking in with her after the bungee jump that they’d clearly been worried about.
Hey Elena! I’ve managed to book a restaurant in the Northern Quarter, near where I live. The chef is a mate and has fitted us in. Details below. See you at 8! Carl
The words were followed by a row of emojis – the dancing man, dancing woman, flames, drinks, a knife and fork, a kissing face.
Elena stared at the message. Tomorrow was the last day of November, and then it was her birthday month. She pursed her lips and typed.
See you then!
18
ELENA
Despite the frost that had already stuck to the pavement and the nip of chilly air, Elena had travelled into Manchester early, unable to resist the Christmas markets that always set up at the end of November. Mingling amongst the hubbub of bustling shoppers, she relished the aroma of mulled wine, of hot chocolate and German sausage. One stall sold nothing but pickles and she couldn’t help taking a photo to show Rory later, even though she was still cross with him. For the first time this winter, festive excitement fizzed in her stomach, a buzz that used to be so much stronger when she was a child, caused by the prospect of presents and baubles, of turkey sandwiches and figgy pudding, as Gran called it. However, it was not caused by Santa. From ten onwards she no longer believed in Father Christmas, because life had shown her there was no such thing as miracles – things happened for a reason, whatever the incredulous medical staff had said about her mother’s sudden and inexplicable recovery.
She ambled back up Market Street and turned left, heading into the Northern Quarter and Stevenson Square, passing the line of cosy, welcoming bars and coffee shops that the area wasrenowned for. She stopped outside a glass-fronted restaurant, R&B music shaking its ass outside, every time the door opened. Carl stood waiting, a grin on his face. He wore chinos and a navy huntsman jacket, looking as stereotypically handsome as in his profile, with snow-white teeth and hair tidily slicked back with gel.
‘Great to see you, Helena.’
‘Elena.’
He smacked his forehead. ‘Sorry, it’s ingrained, getting names wrong. My Aunt is called Amber but I got confused as a toddler and apparently, for several years, called her Auntie Hamburger.’
She laughed, unable to tell if he was joking or not. It didn’t matter. ‘Shall we?’ she said, and they went in. Winding their way between singles drinking colourful cocktails to fuel their flirting, they followed the server to their table. She and Carl sat down opposite each other, under an old factory-style pendant ceiling lamp. They took off their coats, hats, scarves, and ordered a bottle of wine. Conversation covered the biting weather and the Christmas markets. No, he wasn’t into football. Yes, she had lived in the northwest for her entire life. Elena was going to ask what his job was when a chef came over, twisting a tea towel, perspiration running down his cheeks. He flung the towel over his shoulder.
‘Carl, mate, sorry but the oven’s packed in. I’m about to announce that all food’s off.’
‘Oh man, that’s too bad.’ Carl stood up and clapped him on the back. ‘Anything I can do to help? You sure there’s nothing to be done about it?’
The chef shook his head and hurried away.
Elena took out her phone. ‘What a shame. Let’s see if we can book somewhere else.’ Twenty minutes later, neither of them had succeeded. ‘I can get a table in Spinningfields for tenthirty,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure I’ll last until then without carbs.’
‘Never used to be this bad before Covid,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s so used to booking now. It’s become the norm, even midweek.’ He put down his phone. ‘Look… feel free to say no, but my flat’s only around the corner. I can cook. You’re more than welcome.’
Going to a guy’s place on a first date? The old Elena would have balked. No point now. Life was for living, and she had got to know him a bit – he’d offered to help his mate and wasn’t pressuring her to go to his. Carl seemed decent enough.
She picked up the half full wine bottle and her coat. ‘Lead the way!’
Five minutes later, they stood in a dark alleyway, off Stevenson Square. It was a typical Northern Quarter building, made from red bricks, stained black over the years and covered in graffiti. Humming to herself, Elena waited as he opened the ground floor door, free from the usual over-thinking she suffered on a first date. She didn’t fret about whether there’d be enough to talk about, if the kissing would be good, or if he’d turn out to own whips and handcuffs. Elena was too set on her mission to utter those three little words. Elena blew on her hands and blocked out the advice she’d ever read about personal safety. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going and the building was a far cry from the cul-de-sac she lived in, in Cariswell. She tried to imagine what job Carl might have, determined to shake off Rory’s concerns.
In any case… so what if tonight might be The End? People spent their lives worrying about when they were going to die, little realising a finite time on earth was what kept them happy. Immortality would mean never-ending anxiety about paying bills, losing loved ones, about climate change and wars, and it would still never be enough time to read all the books you wanted to. No, an end date in sight gave the present that piquant taste.
‘Right. Let’s go up and get warm.’
For one second, she paused. Fuck, was this mad? Elena curled her fists. Well, it was about time an element of foolishness entered her life. She’d spent the last couple of months being as careful as Rory choosing his brand of pickles. As for Rory, he took risks, whatever he said about taking safety measures seriously. Who was he to question her random first date when he’d jumped between roof tops with no net beneath? She followed Carl up a narrow staircase, with dingy wallpaper and a scratched wooden banister. He opened a door at the top and flicked on a light switch. She squinted at the brightness ahead. Deep breaths. Live a little, Elena Swan.
She strode in. He turned the heating and oven on.
‘Wowww,’ she said, passing him the wine that she’d brought from the restaurant. ‘This place is gorgeous.’ What a contrast to his conservative, dark clothes, with the cosy terracotta walls, mustard and green furnishings, a warm pine laminate floor and a Provencal print rug, its design depicting olives, sunflowers and bunches of lavender. Shelves contained cookery books, unusual glassware and ornamental plates. In the corner stood a lampstand in the shape of a tree, twinkling, welcoming. The room was open plan, with a small kitchen, much of the visible space tidily filled with bottles of spices and oils, herbs and condiments.
‘I’m a chef. I’ve had a day off and spent the afternoon cooking ratatouille, perfecting my favourite recipe,’ he said and signalled for her to sit down on the burnt-orange sofa whilst he opened the bottle.
